Yesterday's Kings (33 page)

Cullyn looked at Laurens and said, “I’d best win, eh?”

Laurens nodded: “For all our sakes, I think.”

A
BRA LEANED AGAINST THE BALCONY
of her chamber, watching Lofantyl and Afranydyr on the practice ground below. It was as if she stood on the bough of some immense tree, studying her fate being worked out for her. Isydrian and his court sat below, the lord of
Kash’ma Hall shouting advice and encouragement to both his sons. She could not, at such distance, see his face clearly, but she could imagine his expression. It would be bloodthirsty, eager for the coming tourney—and confident of victory.

She loved Lofantyl—of that she no longer had any doubt—but his family … Isydrian and Afranydyr seemed fish from a different sea. Where Lofantyl was gentle, they were hard. They extended her basic courtesy, but somehow made it clear she was prisoner, left alive only by Isydrian’s whim. Had Afranydyr his way she had no doubt she’d by now have been made a slave, or a whore. She felt afraid in this strange, magnificent keep, where Lofantyl was her only friend. And he soon to fight Cullyn.

She returned inside her room as the practice ended, wondering what the outcome of the tourney should be.

“I
’VE NO LIKING FOR THIS
,” Lofantyl told Abra. “Cullyn is my friend, and I’ve no wish to fight him.”

“Then don’t,” she said.

“I’m left no choice.”

Her hand touched his mouth, closed it. “I’d stay here with you,” she said. “I love you, so why must you fight Cullyn?”

“Honor demands it. Ky’atha has challenged Kash’ma, and we’re caught up in the game.”

T
HE DAY CAME.
It was a fine day, the sun riding a clear blue sky speckled with swifts and swallows and larks. To the left of the Dur’em Zheit pavilions, the river drifted wide and sparkling. Trout larger than any Cullyn had
seen leapt from the water to snatch dancing insects from the air above. To the right, thick woodland grew, great oaks and solemn beeches, and between was a wide sward of grass, cropped down and greener than any in Kandar.

The pavilions were magnificent, multicolored and spacious, their interiors spread with silken carpets, each one fronted with the pennant of the occupying family. Cullyn shared with Eben and Laurens, theirs set beside that of Pyris and his wife—and Lyandra.

That night, at dusk, it had been agreed the formal confrontations would be made—challenger to challenged. The next day, at noon, the tourney would commence. Cullyn waited in uncomfortable anticipation as Durrym wandered about the encampment. Zheit and Shahn mingled as if it were a festival, placing wagers on the victor. Cullyn felt as if he were a horse on which they bet, and wondered at these strange folk who seemed capable of enmity and generosity, both.

He dreaded the combat.

“Y
OU’RE SURE YOU’LL NOT WEAR ARMOR?
” Laurens asked him. “It’d be safer.”

“It weighs me down, and I can’t see out of that cursed helmet,” he replied. “And if I really am syn’qui, I shouldn’t need it.”

“Being syn’qui,” Ebens replied cheerfully, “doesn’t guarantee your success.”

“You’re mightily encouraging.”

The wizard shrugged. “I tell you only the truth. That’s not always pleasant.”

A trumpet sounded and Lyandra came. “It’s time,” she said, grinning at Cullyn.

He rose and went out of the tent to meet Lofantyl.

T
HEY MET MIDWAY DOWN
the jousting ground. Lofantyl wore a flowing robe, and Abra stood beside him in a gown of pale blue silk that flattered her red hair. Jewels decorated her coiffure, more ringing her fingers. She looked lovely—and concerned. Isydrian stood beside them, and by him a tall, hawk-faced man he introduced as Afranydyr, his elder son. Cullyn was accompanied by Eben and Laurens and Pyris, Lyandra standing to his left, her eyes measuring Abra.

The keep lords bowed formally and Pyris said: “We offer challenge.”

“To what end?” Isydrian replied.

“That, do we vanquish, you shall allow Cullyn of Kandar to speak with the Garm woman, and heed their decision. Does she agree to return home, then you allow her to go.”

Cullyn saw Abra clutch Lofantyl’s arm and shake her head. But Pyris nodded: “It shall be so.”

“Then on the morrow—” Pyris started. And was interrupted by Abra’s cry.

“I don’t want to go home! I love Lofantyl. I want to stay with him in Coim’na Drhu.”

Isydrian ignored her outburst. “There are other settlements to be agreed.”

“Which are?” Pyris asked.

“Does your man win,” Isydrian said, “then the terms are yours to dictate. If not …” He eyed Eben with a cold stare. “My son and his companions are mine. To do with as I see fit.”

“You were ever loathsome,” Eben murmured.

Isydrian favored him with a contemptuous smile and looked to Pyris. “Agreed?”

Pyris nodded. “Agreed.”

Cullyn felt the world spinning around him as his fate was decided. He stared at Abra and felt Lyandra’s hand grasp his. He opened his mouth to say that he had no wish to fight Lofantyl, but his fey friend spoke first.

“I’ll not fight him.”

“What?” Isydrian stared aghast at his son. “Are you a coward? Has all that time you spent in the Garm lands changed you?”

“No.” Lofantyl shook his head. “But I cannot fight him. It would be without honor.”

“You’re crazed,” Isydrian said. “This Garm romance has destroyed your mind.”

“I gave him the lyn’nha’thall.” Lofantyl pointed at the knife on Cullyn’s belt. “We swore friendship. I cannot fight him!”

He winked at Cullyn, who smiled back in relief.

“We must find some other way to settle this,” he said.

And then his brother spoke. “With champions! Let me take Lofantyl’s place.”

Isydrian stared at his sons and shook his head, then turned to Pyris. “What Lofantyl says is right, do you not agree?”

Pyris nodded.

“Then Afranydyr shall be champion of the Shahn. Shall you accept that?”

Pyris nodded again.

“And yours?”

“Let me fight him,” Laurens whispered. “I’d enjoy knocking that cockinjay off his horse.”

“No.” Cullyn shook his head. “I must do this myself.”

Eben clapped his hands. “Well said, lad. Better to sort things out yourself.”

Afranydyr stepped closer, an ugly smile twisting his lips, and said, “I take my brother’s place. Do you agree?”

Cullyn nodded.

“Then at noon tomorrow we fight. Lance and shield, eh?” He grinned wickedly. “And I shall put my point through your chest and slay you. And the Garm woman shall be my brother’s concubine, and your friends become my slaves.”

“Perhaps,” Cullyn answered. “Or perhaps not.”

He felt anger grow inside him that he did not understand, save that he disliked Afranydyr for his arrogance and presumption. He had no wish to fight with Lofantyl: that Durrym was his friend, but Afranydyr … He felt a loathing for the man and even though he doubted he could win the combat, still he felt a sudden and great desire to defeat this arrogant fey.

“On the morrow,” he said, “I shall bring you down.”

Afranydyr laughed. “Dream on, Garm.”

He sneered at Cullyn, utterly confident. Cullyn took a deep breath and turned toward the fey lords.

“I’ve terms of my own, do I defeat Afranydyr.”

“And those are?” Isydrian asked.

“I’ll state them after,” Cullyn said. “Am I able.”

Eben cried, “Well done, lad.”

Afranydyr chuckled, confident.

I
T WAS A FINE, BRIGHT DAY
, as if the Durrym adjusted the seasons to their own purposes. Billows of white clouds sailed across a sky of pure blue, from which shone a sun that belonged to high summer. The grass between the pavilions shone emerald green and birds sang loud from the trees as Cullyn emerged from his tent. He wore a padded tunic, but was otherwise unarmored as he went to Fey and saddled the big black stallion. He had refused to accept horse armor in favor of speed and agility; he hoped he did the right thing.

Fey snorted and stamped as he set the saddle on, as if anticipating the combat, and Cullyn stroked the glossy neck.